


Stain

by TheArchaeologist



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depressed Hank Anderson, Depression, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt No Comfort, Swearing, Which isn't saying much for this game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 02:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17613770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArchaeologist/pseuds/TheArchaeologist
Summary: All the stores are shut due to the evacuation, so it was only through sheer luck that Hank still had a bottle of Black Lamb in the house.He had that, at least. If nothing else, he had his whiskey.





	Stain

All the stores are shut due to the evacuation, so it was only through sheer luck that Hank still had a bottle of Black Lamb in the house.

He had that, at least. If nothing else, he had his whiskey.

Sumo is waiting for him as he staggers into the house, kicking his shoes off in some vague direction. The dog’s getting too old to prance about his feet like he used to, but he still musters the energy to follow Hank excitedly around, tail wagging. Hank pats him on the head, ruffling the space between his ears, and flings his jacket over the nearest armchair, not watching to see if it is a hit or miss.

He doesn’t want to see that.

With his mind numb his body works on muscle memory, guiding him around the cupboards for a clean glass. He strains, bouncing up onto his toes to grab the final one that’s slid too far back, blowing off the faint dust that sits on the rim and coughing as a result. Five others sit in the sink, next to the plate from dinner two nights ago and the breakfast bowls that span the entire week. 

Sumo grumbles beside him, panting heavily. Slowly his tail stop swaying and with a bit of a whine he barks once, the loudness stinging deeply in Hank’s ears. 

He can still hear it minutes later, as he fumbles with the kibble, glaring at the cartoon hound smiling on the packet as the echo goes on and on and on. Perhaps he’s finally getting tinnitus. 

Sumo doesn’t mind his shaking hands as he tips the food, and Hank doesn’t bother clearing the pieces that spill over the edge. They will get eaten eventually, one way or another. Scooping up the empty water bowl he refills it to the near top, the cold weather making the pipes rumble and the tap shake, and give’s the dog another dose of attention for good measure.

Tail wagging again, Sumo licks his chops, gazing up adoringly.

There, he’s taken care of his dog. That’s something in his life he hasn’t screwed over.

He…He can manage his dog.

The whiskey is swiped from the cupboard under the sink, the glass and the bottle clinking together as he manoeuvres around Sumo and the kitchen table to pad into the living room. The TV is already on, a habit he picked up to break the silence for Sumo, but Hank doesn’t even glance at the screen as he sits heavily onto the worn cushion, sinking low into the formed crater from years of use and a fat canine.

His hands are still shaking as he pours the first drink.

With only the low light from the kitchen he can see dark patches marring his fingers. When he lifts the drink to his lips, the smudges blur through the cloudy glass, morphing into odd shapes. They leave fingerprints behind, shining in the white light of the TV. 

Hank pours another. Fingerprints splatter the label of the bottle, as if a forensics team had swept through with their powder and brushes, chipping away at the clues of a crime scene.

Sumo wanders up beside the couch with fresh water dripping from his mouth, pausing to shake old fur and dander all over Hank before trotting towards his bed.

Hank watches him with tired, sore eyes that he’s sure have turned red and puffy by now, noting the dirty marks on the white patches that make up the markings of Sumo’s head. Fisting a hand, he knuckles it into his eyelids, tightly squeezing the stinging away. Without looking he gulps his second drink.

A sharp, scraping sound makes his body jump, the noise mixing with the ringing in his ears to create a constant, throbbing rhythm. It beats on, and on, and on, like a terrible heartbeat.

“Sumo.” Clicking his stained fingers, he scowls at the dog who paws at the jacket that’s slipped from the armchair. The zip and metal buttons shriek against the floor. At the reprimand Sumo blinks and peers up. “Enough, Sumo.”

Hank had never mastered training, so it’s unsurprising when the dog goes right back to nosing the thing along, sniffing at the various smells Hank’s probably picked up over the years. As he pushes it, the jacket leaves a very faint trail on the laminate.

“That’s enough!” Snatching the item from the hound, Hank holds it away, the glass dangling in his grasp. Residue makes his fingertips sticky. “Go lay on your bed.”

The snatch was enough to shake the jacket thoroughly, and both man and dog startle at the sudden, resounding, bouncing noise of something falling onto the floor.

Sumo dives for it.

“No!” Foot flinging out, Hank covers the object with his heel, sliding it closer to him as he dumps his jacket onto the coffee table. He points to the corner. “Bed, Sumo.”

Excitement apparently over, Sumo strolls off, grumbling old man woes as he settles onto the bean bag that should have split and spilled years ago. He shifts about until he’s spread on his side, feet stuck out at odd angles.

Only when his glass is full does Hank bother to have a look under his foot. Knowing his luck, it’ll be a fucking AA token Fowler tried to force on his years ago, or the cap of a beer bottle. Taking a swig of whiskey, but not gulping it in one this time, he plucks the object into contaminated hands.

It’s a coin.

A quarter, to be exact, minted in 1994. It has a portrait of George Washington, along with the words _‘Liberty’_ and _‘In God we trust’._

Hank turns it about, shifting the coin over and over in his palm.

It was Connor’s, the one he yanked out of the android’s hand after the constant fidgeting the whole elevator ride. He had grouched something, he couldn’t remember what, and Connor had apologised in that stupid, goofy way of his.

Hank downs the rest of the glass.

“In God we trust?”

He laughs without humour.

Dropping the coin onto the table, he watches, unseeing, as it twirls an unsteady circle before wavering over onto its side, shaking in quick, violent successions. And then it dies, turning still and plain and grey. Only the steady glow of the TV lights it now. No life blooms from within.

The glass is abandoned in favour of holding the entire bottle to his lips. It dribbles out of the corners of his mouth, a tacky, sticky mess staining his cheeks.

It’ll disappear in a few hours, though.

Hank doubts the tears will. He has experience with this kind of shit.

The bang continues to pound inside his skull.

_“Fuck.”_

 

“Wrong choice, Lieutenant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff? I don't know her.


End file.
